Well, That Happened.

So, today is my old man's birthday. I screwed up and didn't get stuff created/in the mail on time. But I did call today. It's all good because he's on a high from getting to watch the last shuttle launch the other day. In person and stuff. Pretty cool.

Yesterday was way weird. Princess O sneak attacked me Friday night, and brought with her the Gift of Hooch. And there was much rejoicing. Until yesterday morning. At which there was a fair amount of groaning.

I managed to pull myself outta bed/offa the couch and run a few errands. Don't get excited, I didn't actually get anything accomplished like paying bills, purchasing supplies, or buying furniture. I just managed to spend an indecent amount of money on worthless personal grooming. I'm a champ.

Then I get home and I'm all hungry and tired. I click on the telly to catch a movie and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's the Hitler (nee History) Channel, showing a marathon of plague-death-apocalypse shows! Some of you know those shows are better than Xanax and sleeping pills for me--they are a balm for my worn out nerves.

True to form, I sacked out on Mt. Beanaminjaro and fell asleep at 5:00 pm in the afternoon. Got up a few times and then passed out on the bed later.

That is a simply unheard of amount of sleep for me.

Well, today I awoke and felt all spacey in the head zone. Made several calls to folks back east (all of whom miraculously answered) and stepped out to check my mail from the day before.

Whence I found my sometimes neighbor Stu standing with my across the way neighbor Gary, and his dog Jack. Stu says, "You know anything about diabetes?"

Gary is older, but about 12 years younger than my dad turned today. He doesn't look younger. Jack is a black labrador, and you know badly they age. So I grab some candy off my counter and step into Gary's apartment.

We get him to eat half a bite size Hershey's and drink some Coke. Gary's not looking real good, and tells us he thinks we might need to call 911. Stu has a diabetic friend, so he's thinking we can get Gary's blood sugar back up. We watch, pained, as Gary performs his own blood sugar test.

Monitor reads 33. I'm no expert, but I think this is a bad sign. I ask Gary what he needs it to be and he says at least 70.

He guzzles more Coke, and we check his blood two more times. The last time its 27. I look at Stu and he says, "Do you wanna make the call?" I check with Gary, who makes no objections, and then I'm dialing 911 for the first, and hopefully last, time in my life.

I chat on the phone with some folks, and it appears that the fact that Gary is conscious with regular respiration is a Real Good Sign and they arrive in short order. I help gather up his ID and medic info bracelet, and I stay with him while they poke the poor guy full of holes trying to tap a vein.

They push a shitload of sugar water---I mean, that must have *hurt*--and within two minutes ol' Gary is doing a hell of a lot better. I ask the guys if he needs more sugar and they say he needs some protein and carbs, like a sandwich. While they are finishing up, I duck into his kitchen and make a quick cheese sammich outta his fridge (cuz you know there ain't no kinda food up in my place).

Gary doesn't want to go to the hospital. I'm figuring this is b/c Gary has no insurance, a little fact I wheedled out of him before the EMTs showed up. He sits on the stoop and tells me this is the second time in a week this has happened. We agree that he should go to the clinic on Monday. Maybe his insulin doses are too high.

I let Jack out of the back bedroom (had to stash him there at the para's request) and go on my way. Gary thanks me a bunch of times, and Stu has long since dipped out.

It's weird, being in other people's apartments, their personal spaces. Especially in this part of town--we are all living in tiny little rooms, we are all pretty poor, and we sleep on floors and have no a/c and stuff.

It's strange rummaging through someone's bedside stash, looking for their cellphone, or finding their paper towels to wipe the blood off their fingertips, or cobbling together a sandwich from the stuff in their cooler. (I'm just assuming a person likes mustard and mayo on a sandwich if they own those two condiments.)

But the smell, that's the worst. Gary and Jack both smell like death. Like something gone slightly off, just beginning to turn. Something you would like to believe is a collection of forgotten, damp rags or food left out, but it's not.

Man, I hate that smell. I didn't even get anything on me, and I still had to change my shirt when I came back inside. Like smoke or cat piss, it's one of those smells that gets inside your head and you think you sense it everywhere. Or maybe it is everywhere, and you just don't notice most of the time.

Today on the Hitler Channel they are showing specials about Thermopylae and dinosaurs. It's almost like they are trying to win me back after six months of crap programming.

Last night I had the strangest dream about my siblings, random deaths, Christmas, and buying guns.

I have such a long list of things to get done. But I have the oddest sensation, like I'm bobbing along in the ocean, just adrift. Displaced.